


the golden hour

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Medical Residency Years, POV Alternating, So much romantic tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29652483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Five times two young doctors meet in the hallways of the hospital and one time they meet outside.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26





	the golden hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



**Saturday, midnight**

The dark liquid drips slowly into the paper cup, the aroma of overly burnt beans irritating Bedelia’s nostrils. The mechanical hum of the coffee machine resonates against her temples, increasing the already present pressure. As the last drop finds its way to the cup, Bedelia lifts it and brings to her lips, pausing while the full acidic force of the drink assaults her senses. Perhaps it will taste better; she tries to convince herself, knowing perfectly well that it never does. She takes a tentative sip and frowns as the sour liquid runs down her throat.

Whatever it takes to get her through the night.

Another forced mouthful follows as she strives to keep the coffee down.

“You should not be drinking that.”

A familiar warm baritone rings behind her back, making her eyes focus in alert. She has not expected anyone to venture down this corridor, bustling with patients rushing for their appointments during the day, pleasantly empty during the night with only an occasional shadow of a nurse passing soundlessly.

“I did not realize you were put in charge of coffee distribution,” she turns to face her newly arrived companion.

Hannibal Lecter beams at her, his ever brilliant eyes shining merrily, as sharp as ever. As is his whole appearance, from the pristine scrubs to perfectly coiffed hair. Even his stethoscope is placed evenly on his neck, metal shining with brand new polish; he looks as though he stepped out of a medical magazine photo shoot and not being on his twentieth hour of weekend shift. As the fatigue continues to weight on Bedelia’s temples with blunt pulses, she is acutely aware of her own less than ideal state, the resentment rises within her quickly surpassing the bitterness of coffee.

“What I meant is that is not good,” Hannibal looks at her gently, unmoved by her harsh tone.

“Well, there aren’t really any gourmet options available here,” she retorts, finishing her drink with another miniscule flinch on her face.

One that does not escape Hannibal’s attention; he continues to look at her with something akin to concern. It only makes her annoyance flare up further, setting her thoughts aflame and her head spinning, diminishing the desired effects of coffee.

“That is correct,” he agrees, but his sudden concurrence does not lessen her irritation, “But one can always find a solution.”

Her eyes narrow further as she half expects him to pull an entire espresso machine out of his pocket. Somehow, she would not be surprised if he did. Hannibal Lecter has proven to be more than indigenous on numerous occasions.

“That will not be necessary,” she says firmly and cuts off any possible displays of his resourcefulness short, continuing to appraise his appearance.

Upon deeper gaze, she can discern a shadow beneath the perfect gloss of his eyes. The hours have not been without effect on him, after all. She should not have judged him so harshly. He is certainly the most hardworking resident here. Apart from her, that is. And it has not been an easy shift so far.

Her gaze softens.

“How was fourth floor?” she asks, referring to the call from the intensive care unit, one dreaded by all new on call doctors. Hannibal volunteered to answer it.

“Just a note of decease to be signed off, nothing major,” he responds, ever so casual. Bedelia observes him closely, searching for any emotional toil and finding none, only the clinical detachment required by the situation, yet she senses there is something more beneath that façade. She takes a mental note to revisit the observation in her spare time.

Now her brow furrows as she considers the tally for the weekend: two patients lost. So far it seemed the odds of life were not in their favour.

“The fates enjoy playing with the tread today,” Hannibal says, sensing her disconcert, and smiles anew.

“I have not suspected you to give into such fantastic ideas,” Bedelia retorts, her brow rising, but her tone gains lightness, his remark played its role well.

“There more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he recites with ease, fingers marking the intonation with an elegant wave.

“I did not take you for a romantic, Hannibal,” she comments while the corner of her mouth pulls up in a hint of a smile.

Her eyes now peer into his with awaken curiosity; Hannibal Lecter appears to be an endless well of surprises.

“Perhaps not in the popular meaning of the word,” he holds her stare, smiling, as if enjoying her scrutiny, “But yes, you could say that.”

He continues to look deep in her eyes as if wanting her to discern the conviction of his words in their depth. As if it was something that was meant for her specifically.

“You might have chosen a wrong profession then,” she carries on, “No place could be more devoid of such notions than this building.”

“I disagree, Doctor,” Hannibal tilts his head, eyes gleaming with continued thrill of the exchange, “Hospital is where you see how fragile life is and learn to acknowledge it in all its facets.”

“Even death?” Her brow furrows further as she ponders his words.

“Especially death,” he states, his smile twisting in a strangely pleased manner, “Nothing makes one revere life more than knowing it could end at any moment.”

“But that is we are here, aren’t we?” she suggests, “To prevent such sudden ends.”

His head tilts and something shifts in the depth of his eyes as if he were suddenly remembering that he is in fact a doctor.

“Tying the thin thread of existence in all the ways we can,” he concurs, but Bedelia senses the topic is far from exhausted.

She becomes acutely aware how peculiar this exchange is in the setting of a hospital hallway. The air is permeated with a strong scent of cleaning detergent and the sour taste of coffee still lingers on her tongue and here they are, discussing principles. The conversation has taken a shift in tone so suddenly, yet it is not unpleasant. She does not remember the last time she had a discussion not pertaining to patients and cases. And she finds each exchange with Hannibal so strangely effortless.

The pager on Hannibal’s hip suddenly comes to life with a loud ring, piercing against the empty walls.

“I am afraid we will have to take a rain check on that coffee,” he says casually, looking down at the pager.

Bedelia is about to protest an existence of any imaginary arrangement, but Hannibal already turns to leave.

“No rest for the wicked,” he offers her one last smile, the tint of his gaze coloured by strange regret.

She watches him go way away, his steps swift yet still graceful, realizing that her headache has somehow passed in the meantime. She wonders if he meant himself or her.

Perhaps both.

**Sunday, 3 am**

The quiet of the corridor comes in striking contradiction to the bustling waiting area of the emergency department. A tall figure moves soundlessly towards the light at its end, enjoying the moment of respite and peaceful contemplation. It might be considered a busy shift, but not an engaging one. So far, there has been little to hold Hannibal Lecter’s attention for more than a moment required to examine the patient.

He knows that will change soon.

The square of light beacons him like a siren call, but he is aware that the origin of the song comes from the room beyond.

Urgent surgical procedure is a normal occurrence for a Sunday night’s shift and would not attract Hannibal’s interest if it weren’t for the person within it. He reaches his destination and stands by the side of the window opening the view within the room.

Even in an anonymous procedure room she stands out immediately. She is the smallest figure in the room, yet her commanding presence draws his gaze at once. Despite a face hidden behind a surgical mask, her eyes are more than enough to hold his attention. The blue gleams more vividly than the bright light over the operating table. She is peering over the patient, with two nurses assisting, but they are nothing more than a plain backdrop to the spectacle of her.

Hannibal watches the procedure from behind the window, hidden in the shadow of the dark corridor. He smiles as he sees her concentration, eyes focuses on task at hand, nimble fingers moving with care, applying stitches to a finger wound. It might be a basic task for any doctor in the emergency department, but it is a pleasure to watch her work. Bedelia brings brilliant efficiency to her every endeavour, no matter how small. He sees her finishing the last stitch and he gives her one last long glance before walking away, like a shifting in the shadow that was never there.

Or so he thinks.

He makes it way to the doctor’s lounge and finds it pleasantly empty. He contemplates getting something to drink, needing to keep his strength for the long night ahead, but decides against it for now, choosing to simply settle onto the sofa and allow his thoughts to wonder. The image of Bedelia is still radiant in his mind, imprinting on the canvas of his memory palace.

“Are you shadowing me?” Bedelia’s voice brings him out of the depths of his mind. Her sudden presence in a room is startling.

Hannibal smiles; no one has ever managed to sneak up on him without alerting his senses. The sensation is strangely pleasant. The tone of her voice makes it clear that there is no point in fainting ignorance.

“No,” Hannibal turns to face her and stands up from the sofa in a courteous manner, “I was simply observing the procedure.”

Bedelia stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, and her face stern. Hannibal allows himself a moment to take her all in, a petite frame almost disappearing in the loose scrubs, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Such a shame, Hannibal thinks, admiring the striking lines of her face. He is suddenly transported back to the rooms of Uffizi, standing in front of Nascita di Venere. He knows this is not the place to consider beauty and he can see she is trying her best to hide hers. And failing. Even under the harsh illumination of the room, her hair reflects the light in waves of shine. Hannibal thinks that even Botticelli would be unable to recreate the hue.

“Were you also _observing_ my admission earlier tonight?” she ripostes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“No,” he admits, a strange moment of unbidden honestly. It must be her eyes, he concludes, the gas flame burning right through him, “One can learn a lot by watching an excellent doctor on duty.”

His straightforward answer appears to have taken some of the air out of her inflated pique, but her stance remains firm, his unexpected admittance not lessening her displeasure.

“That was an impressive work you did,” he comments, a gentle attempt to placate her.

“I would not call it impressive, it was a simple laceration,” her tone remains firm but her arms uncross, falling idly by her sides.

It is a good start.

“Still, your stitching was impeccable,” he presses on, “I believe there will not be much scaring present.”

“No souvenir to remind one of a foolish attempt of using a half-broken glass,” she comments and the corner of her mouth turns up ever so slightly.

“Perhaps you should reconsider your speciality,” he concludes.

A shadow of smile plays about her mouth. It feels more rewarding than a most complicated operation gone well.

“Are you looking for someone to challenge you, Hannibal?” The faint smile continues to bloom on her lips; she finally walks into the room and takes a seat on the other sofa, opposite Hannibal.

“That would always be welcomed,” he affirms, sitting down again and smiling back at her, “But I was thinking more about your talents.”

Bedelia tilts her head, trying his compliment on for size.

“I appreciate your sentiment,” she says, relaxing her posture.

Hannibal smiles. It fits.

“Surgery is so-”

“Limited,” he interrupts her but she does not seem to mind. It is not the first time they had this discussion. But he never tires of talking with her.

“Yes, exactly,” she nods in agreement, her eyes shining, the blue turning a shade more vivid as if stirred by the exchange.

“Surgery allows us to plunge into the workings of a human body with one sharp cut. Precisely placed, of course,” Hannibal carries on, still mesmerized by her stare.

“That is only flesh deep,” she retorts to Hannibal’s delight.

“Are you saying that I am shallow?” he teases her, eyes swimming with glee.

She tilts her head, giving the notion a throughout consideration.

“I believe that is a discussion for another time,” she concludes with a smirk.

Hannibal’s grin widens and he senses electricity humming beneath his skin; he does not remember the last time he felt this exhilarated.

“I still take that surgery has its merits and room for exploration,” he stands his ground.

“But not as captivating as uncovering the hidden workings of a mind,” she returns.

Hannibal’s eyes flicker; he imagines her slowly peeling away layers of one’s psyche with cut like precision and examining each fragment with the same impenetrable scrutiny.

He cannot deny the thrilling allure of this notion.

“Doctor Du Maurier?” a voice calls hesitantly and a nurse’s silhouette appears in the door.

“Yes,” Bedelia’s posture straightens at once, sharp alert in her gaze.

Hannibal watches the change with pleasure.

“You are needed in bay one,” the nurse announces with an apologetic head tilt of having to interrupt Bedelia’s break.

“Thank you,” Bedelia nods in acknowledgment and stands up immediately.

“I will see you around, Hannibal.”

“You will,” he responds, his smile turning wistful.

Bedelia’s eyes narrow but she says nothing, following the nurse out of the room.

Hannibal remains seated, contemplating their exchange. His mind wonders to Bedelia’s piercing eyes and even more pointed words, sharper than any scalpel could ever be.

He would want nothing more than to have her dissect his mind.

**Saturday (II), 8 pm**

The soothing tone of pen moving against the paper is interrupted by an unexpected sound of a woman giggling. The pen halts at the end of the sentence but then resumes its task. Bedelia’s eyes focus as she fills in the patients’ notes. Another giggle, louder this time, makes her lose her train of thoughts. She pauses and rereads the note so far, diligent to include the right adjusted dosage of anticoagulant. The next giggle ends with a loud snort. This time Bedelia stops and looks up from the notes. The source of the noise is easily found: the new nurse manager is leaning against the desk, head tilted in exaggerated interest of every word coming out of Hannibal Lecter’s mouth.

Bedelia frowns at the scene. This is hardly an appropriate behaviour for a hospital ward. But she should not be surprised; it is just another conquest to be marked on Hannibal Lecter’s bedpost. Bedelia’s lips press while she returns to her notes.

That is none of her concern.

Newly appointed doctor Lecter has been making his romantic way through the halls of the hospital with remarkable speed. Two gynaecology interns, a radiographer, apparently even the head of nephrology has so far fallen for his charms. Not that Bedelia cares for gossip.

_It really is none of her concern._

“Nothing lightens up a night like a bit of work romance.”

A voice interrupts her inner musings. Bedelia looks up and finds another resident, Brandon, suddenly standing next to her and looking at her with an expectant smile.

“Can I help you with anything?” Bedelia asks courtly, gaze fixed sternly on the unwanted companion.

Brandon’s only response is to lean his arm against the counter and smile wider, displaying his perfect white teeth, his full charm mode activated. Bedelia suddenly feels as if she was watching a nature documentary on displays of male advances. She wonders if that is usually enough to attract women. She feels somehow sorry for the ones who fall for it.

“Oh nothing, just admiring blossoming love,” he tilts his head towards the standing couple, making his hair swoosh in a process, a bonus feature to his seduction practice.

Bedelia‘s eyebrow rises but she says nothing.

“Makes you wanna engage in amorous activities of your own, don’t you think?” he says, sighing wishfully as he slides closer to Bedelia.

“How is the myocardial infarction patient doing?” Bedelia asks curtly.

Brendan clears his throat, lifting himself up rather awkwardly.

“Not great,” he admits, his previous air of pomp all but gone by a precise prick of her words, “We had issues with breaking his blood clots.”

“Did you try Nitroglycerin to widen his blood vessels?”

The man mumbles and swiftly walks away. Bedelia is about to return to her notes but glances one last time at Hannibal and his newest conquest. She thinks she saw him looking back at her, the moment so brief she has nearly missed in a blink of her eye. Her gaze focused, she expects to meet his again soon, but he is facing his companion, listening intently. Perhaps, she was mistaken. She looks down at the paper, rereading her notation, yet the sensation of being observed persists. Her eyes sharpen as she looks up again but the previous scene of seduction is all done and gone; Hannibal has already left and the woman moves awkwardly around the nurses' station as if trying to remember what she was doing before.

_How unprofessional._

Bedelia frowns again and closes the notes, putting the task, and its disruption, behind her. She makes her way out of the ward, hoping to not be subjected to any similar displays again.

But there is no escape from the gossip.

“Did you see Doctor Lecter today? Apparently the new girl from the third floor caught his eye. She is so lucky.”

Bedelia clears her throat; she has been standing in front of the pharmacy window, waiting for the chit chat to end. The pharmacist turns to her with a frown, clearly not happy to have such vital discussion interrupted.

“This is the new prescription for Martin Dunne,” Bedelia states matter-of-factly, placing the paper on the counter and ignoring the woman’s reaction.

The second pharmacist moves forward and takes the note without a word.

“Do you really find him attractive?” she carries on with the conversation, “I think he is odd looking.”

“He is so hot,” the first woman exclaims, “Have you seen those shoulders?” She smiles dreamily, clearly picturing the alluring features in her mind.

“I guess,” the second woman considers the attributes of Hannibal Lecter with a tilt of her head. She puts the prescription on top of the in-tray without a glance.

Bedelia’s lips press into a thin line. A line that is close to cracking.

“Could you make sure that the adjusted dose is ready for the morning?” she says, eyes shifting from the discarded prescription to the woman who placed it there.

The pharmacist looks at Bedelia but makes no attempt to rectify her negligence.

“We would not want the patient to have a bleed, wouldn’t _we_?” Bedelia presses on, putting a soft pressure of every word, her gaze stern.

“Of course, not,” the second woman responds, her previous tone of frivolity vanishing under Bedelia’s scrutiny while she takes the prescription back and reads it.

“Thank you,” Bedelia nods her head and walks away.

She knows the returned sensation of being watched is very real now.

“She looks like she could use a date tonight.”

The comment accompanies her departure as the pharmacist makes no attempt to lower her voice.

“Yeah, but I don’t see her getting many offers. Especially not from someone like Hannibal Lecter.”

The women’s laughter and Hannibal’s name echoes down the corridor while Bedelia reaches the stairs. She brushes it all away for the white noise that it is.

She is not here to get dates.

And it seems no one else will, at least not tonight. As the evening enfolds, an incoming road traffic accident notification puts all the on call doctors on alert, getting ready to receive an unknown number of casualties.

Fortunately, the arriving ambulance only has one patient. Hannibal is the first person at the door when it arrives. Bedelia watches his swift response from behind the registration desk. His posture is tall and sure as he walks by the gurney, checking the vitals with practiced precision and instructing the nurses on needed actions. The primary assessment is completed by the time they reach the door to the emergency procedure room. Bedelia appraises his skills with genuine pleasure, all the qualities that seemed to have gone unnoticed by the women, and some men, in the building.

He is the last person to disappear behind the double door. Before he vanishes from her view, Bedelia’s eyes trail the broad line of his shoulders.

**Thursday, 2 am**

He has barely noticed her in the dark of the room; a petite figure curled up on the lounge chair and covered in a blanket. Hannibal blames the lapse in his senses on the glare of the vending machine in the back. His hand halts just before pressing the light switch. He lets it fall by his side, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He presumed the lounge would be empty, with all the newly fledged interns flocking to the canteen; it seems Bedelia thought the same. His eyes discern the shape of her, appearing even smaller in her nestled position. No wonder he did not see her at first.

He steps into the room, taking more care than usual to remain soundless, gaze still upon Bedelia. Her head is tilted aside, falling towards her shoulder and Hannibal wonders if she is at all comfortable. An on call bedroom would be a more appropriate choice but he understands why she chose to rest here; it is closer to the emergency department in case of a call.

His own eyes feel heavy, weariness creeping onto his muscles. Psychical fatigue is not something he has anticipated before, but it appears even his stamina has its limits. He focuses inwards, studying the sensation with curious fascination, his own body being as much of a subject as his patients.

His stare falls on Bedelia anew, soaking in her relaxed state. He hopes the brief doze will provide her with some rest, no matter how awkward the space is. It is a strange sentiment but somehow he feels protective of her, a feeling as strong as it is unexplained. He has only experienced it twice before, first time with his sister. Hannibal appraises the sleeping woman afresh, his mind instantly trying to fit the piece into a broken Misha puzzle. His eyes are drawn to the shine of her blonde hair, so much like his sister’s. But, oddly, it does not fit. The pull towards her is of a different kind.

The second time was his aunt. The invoked memory is tinted with dark shadows of rejection, weighting heavily on his mind. Yet somehow he senses that would not happen now. The way Bedelia looks at him, he can feel her seeing beneath his carefully crafted façade.

Seeing and understanding.

It is a tantalising sensation, each time her eyes fall on him; he enjoys burning under her gaslight flames.

There is plenty of space, but he cannot help himself and choose a chair next to Bedelia. He sits slowly, watching her as he does so; he places his lunch boxes on the table in front of him, yet is reluctant to make any additional movement in fear of disturbing her with any noise. She stirs suddenly and Hannibal freezes in his spot. Her eyes open, the icy blue already clear and alerted, no sleep induced grogginess within its depth.

“My apologies, I did not mean to wake up,” he speaks softly, not wanting to add to her confusion.

“What time is it?” she asks, her voice cracking under the remnants of repose. She hastily reaches for her pager as if afraid she has slept through an important call.

“It is 2 o’clock,” Hannibal responds with a gentle smile, “It is fine, you can still rest.”

She gives him a sceptical side glance but her shoulders relax nonetheless. Her hand reaches for the back of her neck, confirming Hannibal’s assumption about the less than ideal resting spot. Bedelia sighs, fingers trying to relieve the knotted spot, but moving awkwardly, her mind might be alerted but her body is yet to fully awaken. Hannibal’s hand twitches; he wishes he could reach out and help her alleviate the pain. She moves her head from side to side and sighs softly, before sitting up straight. She focuses on him now, as if only fully noticing his presence, eyes falling on the lunch boxes in front of him.

“You do not have to delay your break on my account,” she says, hands now moving up to adjust her hair, making sure all the strands are gathered back in her usual knot. Hannibal’s fingers stir anew; he makes an effort to press his palm still against his thigh.

“No delay,” he responds, moving the boxes closer to the edge, “I was looking for you, actually.”

Bedelia’s brow furrows in confusion.

“You still have enough time to take some nourishment,” Hannibal says, taking the top bento box and putting it on the table in front of Bedelia.

The line of her frown deepens instantly.

“Have you acquired a second job as the caterer for the hospital?” she asks coolly, her gaze instantly sharper as her defences lift.

“No,” Hannibal chuckles, “But I always prepare my own food.”

“And have you just happened to bring two?” she motions to the identical box in front of him.

Hannibal opts for silence, smiling ever so innocently. As suspected, it does nothing to placate her.

“I do not need anyone to look after my meals,” she states firmly, sitting up straight as if right posture could help prove the point of her self-sufficiency.

“Yes, I know that,” Hannibal reassures at once, “I thought you might enjoy something other than what passes for food in the canteen.”

His mouth twists in distaste at the last word. The truth is he has hardly seen her eat at all.

“It is salmon sashimi,” he adds ever so offhandedly, but it is anything but a casual mention.

He knows it’s her favourite. As expected, a flicker of interest sparks in her eyes. He can see she debates whether to inquire how he obtained that information but decides against it.

“It has been awhile since I enjoyed someone’s company at dinner,” he presses on gently.

He can tell from her expression that she does not believe his attempted excuse.

“A great company,” he specifies and her gaze softens ever so slightly.

“This is not a place, or time, for social pleasantries,” she says still.

“You would make my night,” he concludes his request, “Please.”

It is not a word he uses lightly, even less so means it, but he does now. The bizarre sensation leaves his mind enkindled.

She seems to sense it too; she relaxes her face as if allowing her safeguarding to lower. If only a tad.

It is enough for Hannibal.

He takes out two pairs of chopsticks and offers one to Bedelia. She remains hesitant but her interest is piqued anew when she sees the carved cherry blossoms on the top of the wood and the ornamented cover.

“They belonged to my uncle. A gift from his wife,” he explains briefly and her eyes flicker with expected curiosity.

“They are exquisite,” she comments, taking them with care, an accepted token of insight for the pleasure of her company.

Hannibal smiles and chooses to omit the obvious parallel. He removes his own chopsticks from the cover and opens the bento box; Bedelia follows suit, her movements tentative at first but the appealing contents win her favour in the end. Hannibal pauses, the utensils suspended mid-air as he watches her. She removes the cover and gives the food arrangement an appreciative glance: perfect pieces of fish presented in a form of flower petals with edamame beans as its centre. The thinly grated carrot strips on the side complete the picture.

“It seems you might have also missed your calling, Hannibal,” she remarks.

Still admiring the composition, she rolls the chopsticks in between her fingers. Finally, she lowers them and takes a segment. Hannibal does his best not to stare too intensely; he is enthralled by the manner she holds the chopsticks and how skilfully she lifts the piece of fish. Her eyes close briefly as she takes in the aroma of fresh food.

_His food._

Hannibal almost holds his breath as she brings the morsel to her lips and bites down with gusto.

“It is delicious,” she comments with an amused side glance, undoubtedly sensing his tense anticipation.

Hannibal nods, accepting the praise, feeling almost bashful.

“It is impressive you are able to find time to obtain fresh produce,” she comments as she takes another piece of sashimi.

“I believe it is important we look after our bodies,” he states, pointing his chopsticks as though to mark his point, “Especially given the exhausting nature of our working hours.”

A small frown appears on Bedelia’s frown while she considers if the words were in anyway pointed _at her_.

“Of course it has not been easy,” Hannibal adds at once, not wanting to stir her unease, “But I am used to always preparing my own meals. The established routine helped.”

Bedelia nods in acceptance of his explanation. The chopsticks move anew as she takes a bean.

“It has been awhile since I had a meal that did not come pre packed,” she admits unexpectedly.

It is Hannibal’s turn to nod while he takes in her moment of honestly and preserves it in his mind.

“I am glad that you are enjoying it then,” he comments cautiously, not wanting to press his luck.

_I am glad you are enjoying my company._

The sentiment resonates close to his lips, but he leaves it unspoken.

Bedelia inclines her head, her expression gentler now and her previous objections dissolving together with the tender flesh of salmon on her tongue.

“You did not have to do this, Hannibal,” she says quietly, a predicted reinforcement of her protective armour.

“I did not do it for you,” he states with all seriousness and Bedelia’s lips twist with expected disbelief.

“It is for the good of the patients,” he carries on, a riposte at ready, “Their wellbeing will be impacted if one of the best doctors here is not up to her strength.”

Bedelia smirks at the absurdity of his remark.

“Make sure to mention that during the next rounds. I am certain they will be very grateful,” she retorts teasingly.

Hannibal laughs, enjoying her playing along with his words.

Their shared merriment resonates in the vacant space of the room while they both fall silent, focusing on their meal.

Bedelia finishes first, looking almost surprised by the sight of an empty dish in front of her.

“That was wonderful, thank you,” she places the chopsticks neatly across the top of the box.

“You are most welcome,” Hannibal responds, finding himself freshly elated at the vision of her nourished and pleased.

“I really must be going now,” she glances at the clock on the wall, the time temporarily forgotten until it caught up with her.

She stands up and Hannibal does the same, his manners taking over. She offers him a half smile of appreciation.

“Same time next week?” he risks a playful comment as she walks towards the door.

She turns on a spot and gives him a stare of silent reprimand, but it is not without glee.

Hannibal smiles to himself as he takes his seat and finishes his meal.

He feels nurtured in a way he has never thought was possible.

**Friday, 7.30 am**

Bedelia’s eyelids are rebelling; the glare of the white screen hurts her tired eyes. She turns her gaze aside, focusing on the darkness of the room instead.

“Did I miss anything?” low voice sounds from the chair next to her, a chance companion appearing soundlessly as if out of thin air.

“Only Doctor Pollard’s continues battle with technology,” Bedelia responds in the same hushed tone as the man settles in the seat.

Hannibal lets out a husky chuckle; it resonates pleasantly in the base of her spine.

“We might be here awhile,” he says, unbuttoning his lab coat and making himself comfortable.

“You do not have to be here,” she concludes.

The morning case meetings are only obligatory for the interns; the residents were not required to attend.

“Neither do you,” he counters and she detects a smile in his tone.

“I like to be up to date with any possible cases of interest,” she responds, opening her note book as if to mark her point.

“I could not agree more,” Hannibal says, tilting his head, “But I do not know if I chose to attend after a full night’s shift.”

Bedelia gives him a pointed side glance. It is true that she has just finished her call duties, but unlike _some_ , she did not want to miss the meeting. She feels fine, after all. Her eyelids continue to weigh heavily but she blinks them open. It is just another hour.

Or two.

The screen in front of them continues to glare with white nothingness.

“I wonder if anyone will ease his misery,” Hannibal muses. His raspy tone elicits shivers across the skin of her shoulders.

“Would you?” she asks, giving the man next to her a brief glance.

“Not unless I wanted the privilege of extra night shifts for a next month or so,” Hannibal responds, his voice now closer to her ear.

The warm vibration trickles pleasurably down her neck. She smiles at his response; he is right, doctor Pollard does not like to be reminded of any shortcomings.

Finally, the screen comes alive, to a low hum of relief from the rows in front. Bedelia focuses her strained eyes on the display. The first case is brought up and Doctor Pollard makes the required introduction: finding a suitable donor for a kidney transplant patient with rare HLA antibodies.

It is nothing she has not heard before and she knows the suitable donor has been since acquired, but she makes a note of the case, nonetheless. Her eyelids fall like iron as she looks down at her notebook, the fatigue settling in deep. She presses them firmly together, and then opens them again.

She wonders if the increased drowsiness is due to the uninspiring nature of the meeting or the heat radiating from the body on the seat next to her. She tries to discard the sensation, focusing her gaze on the front of the hall.

Doctor Pollard has now called on one of the interns to present the assessment and treatment course. The boy in the second row stands up and moves to the front, clearing his throat awkwardly. The corner of Bedelia’s lips turn up; she has seen him boasting his ego on the rounds, now his overconfidence is all but deflated. Unfortunately, his lacklustre presentation does not improve the overall nature of the meeting.

A shiver passes through Bedelia’s shoulders, her tired body giving her clear signals that is high time she rested. She shakes it off immediately, but it does not go unnoticed. Hannibal inhales sharply. She senses the warmth of his body closer to hers as he shifts in his seat but he knows better than to say anything.

The presentation continues in the same tedious manner and Bedelia’s head feels heavier with each passing minute. She closes her notebook and sits up straighter but the strain of tiredness persists. Her head begins to sway aside. She pulls it back up with an abrupt shrug of her shoulders, but the brisk movement only revives her consciousness for a short moment. Bedelia feels the burden becoming leaden like and her head dips anew. She tries to lift it back up yet it is becoming nearly impossible.

The meeting will be over soon.

It is the last clear thought in her mind before everything goes dark.

She wakes up with a start, blurry eyes surveying the surroundings with confusion. It takes her a moment to discern where she is and even longer to realize where her head is resting.

_Oh no._

She lifts herself up in an instant, her stiff muscles giving a painful pang of protest, her cheek tingling in despair of the sudden loss of warmth enveloping it until a moment ago.

“There is no need to rush. There is no one here,” Hannibal says quietly, looking down at her with strange softness.

Bedelia frowns instantly, looking around the now empty auditorium. The meeting is long over.

As if falling asleep on his arm wasn’t bad enough.

“You should have woken me up,” she says, her voice cracking from misuse, her eyes darting aside, suddenly embarrassed to meet his.

The fault is hers entirely, but it feels easier to direct the blame on him somehow.

“You seemed to have needed a moment of rest,” he carries on in the same gentle tone.

The remark only infuriates her further. She did not need _that_.

“Clearly, _not here_ ,” she rejoins.

“Do not worry, we were hidden from the view,” he offers, thinking her concern is with the public setting, “No one has noticed.”

Bedelia’s skin begins to burn with a sudden flush.

“That does not make it better,” she blurts out, her mind still circling in confusion.

Hannibal opens his mouth again but she does not give him a chance to speak.

“Excuse me.”

Bedelia gets up abruptly and makes her way towards the door, her unsteady legs making her exit anything but graceful.

But she does not care. She does not stop, nor look behind her, until she safely out of anyone’s sight.

She pauses as she circles the corner, taking a deep breath to calm her mind and gather her bearings. She briefly wonders if she left anything behind, but it does not matter.

_It was inexcusable._

She berates herself anew for the moment of weakness. It was an obvious mistake; attending a meeting after so many non-stop hours of work and therefore letting her body’s needs take charge over her reason. It is not a mistake she will be making again.

_Ever._

A few deep breaths later, she begins to feel more like herself, banishing the useless guilt. There is no use to dwell on what has already happened. Her steps slowly regain their firmness as she continues on her way down the hallway.

One last thought persists on her mind but she does her best to swat it away.

It was the most restful nap she had in years.

**Monday, 6.59 am**

He never feels more like a phantom presence than in the hours of morning when the previously quiet building fills with movement of the new day. Hannibal moves against the current of people, flowing in for their morning start, the usual buzz of the hospital coming alive as the day begins.

Perhaps she has left already, he thinks as he reaches the entrance, but it is unlikely she would do so even a minute before the end of her shift.

He knows as he does the same.

The first slivers of light announce the arrival of the dawn. Hannibal walks around the main hospital building, feeling rather hopeless in his purchase.

But maybe he isn’t.

Once he nears the bike shelter, he spots a familiar glint of golden locks. Bedelia is sitting on the bench in front of the roofed cover, usually occupied by smokers, satisfying their cravings in between the hours of work. Now the bench is empty for her alone to enjoy.

“Did you take up a new habit?” Hannibal asks, announcing his arrival.

Bedelia turns to look at him with her usual mix of wariness and intrigue.

“Do you mean smoking?” she returns, “No, I find this particular vice uninspiring.”

Hannibal cannot help but smile; he expected nothing less from her.

“But feel free to enjoy one yourself. I do not mind,” she carries on; an amused half smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

Hannibal’s smile persists while they both fall silent, enjoying the tangible play of words.

“That is not why I am here,” he concedes and she tilts her head with mild interest.

She knows as much.

A brief moment of silence allows Hannibal to take in the sight of her, delicate beauty peaking from beneath the firm visage. A sudden gush of wind joins their company, bringing the cold lingering in between the passing night and forthcoming day. He sees Bedelia gather her arms closer, the thin material of hospital attire providing little protection from the chill. His instinct is to offer her his jacket, but he is not wearing one. Cold has never affected him. Still, her shiver rings with alarm in his mind.

“May I sit down?” he asks with caution.

“Yes.”

To his surprise, she moves aside, making room for him to sit. Hannibal nods a silent thank you and takes a seat, placing himself next to her. He expects her to move away, towards the edge, but she does not. Her shoulders relax under the sudden influx of nearby heat. Hannibal wishes he could reach his arm around and place it on the top of the bench but he knows that would be too forward. He settles for enjoying her brief relief from cold.

“I just wanted to thank you for looking after my patient last night,” he gets to the point of his intrusion.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” she comments, “I just happened to be around.”

“You stepped in when it was needed,” he insists.

“You would have done the same,” she adds when she sees him unconvinced by her modesty, “There was no reason for you to interrupt your rest.”

“Still, the nurse should have paged me,” he states, almost defensively. He is not used to admitting any shortcomings. Like a need for sleep.

“The patient was simply anxious and wanted to speak to someone. It is only natural given her family’s history of cardiovascular disease, but her results were all within normal ranges. She just needed some reassurance. Nothing life threatening,” she adds with a smile, sensing his discomposure.

“Well, she was very impressed with you manner,” Hannibal admits, not without pride in his voice.

“Was she? It is unusual for a patient to comment on such a brief interaction,” Bedelia‘s eyebrow lifts, not questioning the praise itself but its origin.

Hannibal smiles and says nothing; he might have prompted the enquiry himself.

They both fall silent, the subject of the patient not compelling enough to press further.

“Is this really the reason you sought me out here?” she asks suddenly, head tilting in curious study.

“Why are you out here?” he rejoins, “The shift has ended, you should be long gone.”

“I wanted to get some fresh air before I am bound to another confined space,” she answers.

He nods in agreement; he understands what she means. They hardly get to experience the light of day, venturing between hospital beds and then returning to their own.

Bedelia looks ahead and Hannibal’s gaze follows. The day blossoms slowly and the sky turns from block of grey to swirls of pink. The sun arrives at last, peaking from behind the tree in front of them, trickles of orange light growing and transforming into broad lines of golden illumination, as if by broad strokes of a brush. The sight is like an impressionist painting in a making. The sudden display of beauty stuns him. There seems to be a reason for her choosing this spot, after all.

“What a beautiful sunrise,” he comments, “It appears that you are a romantic yourself, Doctor Du Maurier.” He turns to look at her now, renewed admiration in his eyes.

“We should strive to enjoy natural light as often as possible,” she deflates his insinuation with reason, “Especially given all the hours we spend under fluorescent light.”

She glances at him as if daring him to contradict her, but he does not. He folds her stare; it feels like a trial of sorts and he is determined to pass it. He wishes to know what awaits on the other side of the burning gas flames of her eyes.

“I will not be one of your conquests, Hannibal,” she says suddenly, unyielding conviction in her eyes.

Hannibal almost startles.

“I would never dream of that,” he states, truthfully.

It has never crossed his mind, to put her in the same thought as his casual encounters. As any other person, for that matter.

Her lips twist as she considers his words.

“What do you want then, Hannibal?” she presses on, challenge reflected in her steel gaze.

He grows pensive, her question taking him by genuine surprise. His thoughts rush in search of an answer while she continues to appraise him. Bedelia’s head moves from side to side in her wordless contemplation, and then she sighs softly as if having come to a conclusion. It makes Hannibal’s skin tingle. She reaches her hand out and places her fingers on his cheek; Hannibal swallows a gasp. Her touch is soft and warm; he notes each point of contact, wishing to imprint the lines of her fingers on his face. He sits exceptionally still, afraid to move and break the sudden spell of her caress. The corner of Bedelia’s lips curls up as though she were reading his thoughts. Another flare darts behind her eyes, her mind making another decision he cannot discern.

The hand moves to the back of his neck and she pulls him closer, pressing her lips against his. The sensation sears him like a branding iron, burning away his composure. Her lips are unhesitating and purposeful, claiming what is hers to take. He feels raw and exposed under her caresses; it is utterly tantalizing. It is more than he could have ever imagined. His hand lifts to cup her cheek as he kisses her back, his lips insistent in their own discovery, parting hers for a proper relish. She sighs in surprise at his response but meets his desire kiss for kiss.

He does not know how long the moment lasts, but it is not long enough. Her lips peel away from his with a sharp intake of breath. Hannibal feels strangely displaced as he looks at her afresh; her eyes are wide, her previous coolness all gone. He is still unable to make out her thoughts, yet he is certain they are in disarray. Whatever her intended outcome was, this is not it. He sees himself reflected in her gaze, equally undone in a way he has never been before. The stitches of his carefully crafted façade are hanging on their last threads. It is a thrilling sight. He wants her to keep pulling at them until there is nothing left to uncover.

Bedelia exhales slowly, her eyes regaining their focus.

“I should be going,” she says awkwardly and stumbles while standing up.

Hannibal’s lips are still parted and he finds no words to respond. His eyes follow her abrupt departure. He realizes how she might appear to a casual bystander: just another young doctor in her crumpled scrubs and shadows of fatigue under her eyes, but Hannibal knows better. He knows what she could be, what _they could be_.

As he watches her walk away, the sensation of her lips still branded on his, he considers her previous query. He knows exactly what he wants.

He wants to give her the world.

**Author's Note:**

> The golden hour is not only the so called magic hour after sunrise and before sunset but also, in medical terms, it is the first hour after the trauma/ injury when prompt medical attention can save one's life. I thought the double meaning was very appropriate to our doctors.  
> Thank you to Caissa for this amazing prompt! ♥ I had the best time writing it. I live for baby bedannibal doctors!  
> Alternating POVs is my thing when it comes to 5 times fics, so I loved to revisit the concept here.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you thought ♥ Stay safe everyone.


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